


A Glass of Wine

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, Injury, Requited Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot set in S5 after Havensworth and inspired by the Harry's Feet challenge. Pointless bit of fluff really. Hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glass of Wine

 

“Don't move,” she says firmly. “Where's your broom?”

“Ruth,” he objects, his gaze intense and full of hope as he stares at her.

“Not now, Harry,” she shakes her head. “Where's the broom?”

“Cupboard under the stairs,” he sighs in resignation, looking around him at the shards of glass littering his kitchen floor, scattered around his bare feet.

“Right,” she nods. “I'll be right back.” He watches as she leaves the room in search of the cupboard, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins as a result of what she'd said, the reason he'd spun round to face her so quickly that he'd sent the wine glass resting on the kitchen counter beside him hurtling across it and smashing onto the floor.

His phone rings, the ringtone telling him it's Adam, and he's so lost in his thoughts that he forgets about the glass for a moment and takes a step in the direction of the kitchen table where his phone is busy vibrating across its surface on a journey that will ultimately lead it to join the wine glass on the floor, possibly with the same disastrous consequences. “Bollocks,” he says as the thought crosses his mind a moment too late and he hears the crunching noise beneath his foot and feels the pain shoot through it, making him inhale sharply.

“Which part of don't move was hard to understand, Harry?” she demands crossly as she steps into the kitchen with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other.

“It's Adam,” he explains, wincing at the pain as he lifts his right foot off the floor again and leans back against the counter.

“Bugger, Adam,” she declares, putting the broom and dustpan down against the wall and striding over to the table, glass crunching under her boots.

He watches in amazement as she picks up the phone, and in a very authoritative tone of voice that would rival that of Juliet Shaw, she says, “Adam, Harry's busy. On a scale of one to ten, how urgent is this?” There is a pause and then she says, “Good. He'll call you back in half an hour.” Then she hangs up, depositing the phone back on the table and picking up a kitchen chair, she brings it over to him and sets it on the floor behind him. “Now, sit,” she orders, narrowing her eyes at him, “and don't you dare move this time.”

He bristles at her tone of voice, but forces himself to swallow his protests as he realises that a) he needs her help, and b) he doesn't want her to leave before they've had a chance to talk about the bombshell she's just dropped. So he sits down and watches as she picks up the broom and briskly, and rather viciously, sweeps the floor, collecting all the glass shards with the dustpan and throwing them into the bin. He wonders if she knows what Adam thinks he's busy doing with her and how she feels about that when, just thirteen days ago, she'd told him she can't date him any more because of the gossip. On the other hand, she's the one who'd turned up at his door tonight, at half ten on a Sunday night, telling him that they had to talk and then quietly declaring her love for him in response to his offer of a glass of wine.

“Do you have any slippers?” she asks as she straightens up and turns to look at him, her eyes still glinting dangerously as she interrupts his confused thoughts.

“No,” he replies. “I usually wear shoes or nothing at all.”

She sighs then and turns to leave the room saying, “I'll just put these away then and we'll have a look at your foot.”

She's gone for less than half a minute this time and he takes the opportunity to lift his right foot towards his left knee in an attempt to see the damage. Unfortunately, however, he's not as flexible as he used to be any more, so the most he manages to ascertain is that the damage is minimal and the cut's located near the outside of his foot in front of his heel. “Oh, Harry,” he hears her sigh, “you're bleeding.”

“Yes, well, I stepped on a piece of glass, Ruth,” he replies rather testily, annoyed with himself and his stupidity.

She's quiet for a beat, so he looks up at her face, noting how her eyes are gentle and filled with concern now. “Where's your first aid kit?” she asks softly.

“The cupboard above the fridge,” he volunteers, giving her an apologetic look to make up for his brusque response a moment ago.

She nods and pulls one of the other kitchen chairs over to the fridge, hesitating for a moment as she eyes her boots before shrugging her shoulders slightly and standing on the chair to reach into the cupboard. Soon she has the first aid kit open on the counter next to him and a bowl of tepid water on the floor by his feet. “Ruth,” he objects, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed, “you don't need to do this. I can manage.”

She ignores him, however, and kneels down on the floor before him before raising, loving blue eyes to his and saying softly, “I don't think so, Harry. It's not easy to see the sole of one's foot, especially when one's trying to get a tiny sliver of glass out. Besides, I _want_ to help. Please let me.” She reaches towards him and wraps her right hand around his ankle, her touch warm and gentle, and he gives in to his desire to be cared for by Ruth, to feel her soft hands against his skin, touching him with such tenderness.

It amazes her how large his foot is as she lowers it into the water and then wonders briefly if he's ticklish, hoping that he isn't as she wraps her fingers round it and rubs them firmly across his sole, washing away any more tiny shards of glass that might be clinging to his skin while avoiding his cut. Then she sits back on her heels, grabbing the towel and placing it across her lap before she lifts his foot out of the water and places it between her knees.

He watches her intently, feeling his heart overflow with love and his desire kindle at the care she takes to dry his foot gently with the towel, her brow furrowed in concentration as she peers at his cut in the light of the torch she holds in her left hand. “I think I can see it, Harry,” she says. “It's not deep. I'll try to get it with the tweezers.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, his deep voice sending shivers running up and down her spine, but she fights the urge to look into his eyes with every fibre of her being, fearing what she might see there, fearing the Havensworth look. But isn't that why you're here tonight, she asks herself before pushing the thought resolutely aside. She needs to focus on the task in hand. Gently she wipes around the cut with disinfectant, feeling his muscles twitch under her fingertips as she squeezes a couple of drop of it into the broken skin, but not hearing him make a sound. Brave man, she thinks, smiling inwardly at the thought. Then picking up the disinfected tweezers in her right hand, clamping the torch between her teeth and lifting his heel up towards her face with her other hand, she attempts to remove the piece of glass lodged in his foot, focussing her mind entirely on the task in hand and managing to ignore the softness of the skin of his ankle below her fingertips that is in such stark contrast to the roughness of the skin the glass has pierced.

He has such sexy feet, large, wide, masculine, a tuft of a few blonde hairs decorating each toe, his toenails broad and cut short. What would he do if she sucked one of his toes, she wonders briefly before chastising herself and refocussing her attention on the splinter.

He watches her as she focuses on her task, her eyelashes lowered over bright, blue eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration, her hands steady, one wrapped around his ankle, warming his skin and making his pulse race. He hopes she can't feel it, hopes that she'll hurry up and finish, and at the same time, wishes that she'll take her time and this moment of physical contact between them will last an eternity. He watches her struggle to swallow with the torch still gripped between her teeth and sees her lips close around it for a moment, making his mind fill with visions of her lips wrapped around a very different cylindrical object that is even now growing in girth and length inside his trousers. 'Get a grip, Harry,' he tells himself sternly, closing his eyes and taking deep relaxing breaths, hoping that she hasn't noticed.

A few moments later, she makes a sound of triumph in her throat, and as he opens his eyes, he sees her holding the tweezers up in victory a tiny piece of glass clasped in their tip. She still has the torch gripped between her teeth, but she's smiling, her eyes dancing in triumph. He leans forward, spreading his palm out towards her and saying, “Here. Give it to me.”

She hesitates, but obliges, letting it drop onto his palm before she lowers his foot back onto her knees and takes the torch out of her mouth. Swallowing in relief, she watches him examine the sliver in his hand that is less than a centimetre long.

“Tiny little bugger, isn't it?” he murmurs, raising his eyes to hers. “Thanks for getting it out, Ruth.”

“You're welcome, Harry,” she smiles, holding his gaze for several moments until the intensity of it makes her look away. “I'll just check to see if there are any more,” she mumbles, turning her attention back to the cut in his foot.

He reaches over to deposit the tiny shard on the counter and then turns to watch her as she focuses on her task once more, sighing inwardly at the way she'd withdrawn from him again. This has to stop, he decides. Tonight they're going to talk this through and work it out between them. She's taken the first step by coming here and he's not going to let her escape from him again.

“I don't see any others, Harry,” she says. “Do you have any castor oil?”

“Castor oil?” he asks in surprise. “You're not going to make me drink it, are you?”

“No,” she laughs, raising her eyes to look at him again. “It helps draw splinters out.”

“Oh, thank God for that. I was getting terrible flashbacks from my childhood just then,” he smiles in relief. “I'm afraid I don't have any.”

“Pity,” she replies. “Perhaps you have some cream in your first aid kit then. It would be good to put something on just in case there are some more, smaller pieces of glass in there.” She lowers his foot gently onto the floor and gets up, stretching her legs a little gingerly.

“You all right?” he asks, frowning in concern.

“Mmmm,” she hums as she stands and turns towards the counter. “Fine.” She looks through the kit quickly and exclaims in triumph, “Aha!” Then she applies a little of the cream on a small piece of gauze and settles herself before him once more, using some tape to stick the bandage securely in place. “Right,” she says when she's done. “All set.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, watching as she gets up and begins to clear things away. “I'll do that, Ruth,” he objects.

“How?” she replies, turning to give him a challenging look, and at his defeated shrug, her eyes soften and she adds softly, “Really, Harry, I don't mind. There's no need for you to feel so uncomfortable. It's just me and I enjoy helping you... I like it when you need me.”

“Ruth,” he murmurs in that deep, husky voice he has that makes her insides melt and her heart rate treble in an instant.

“Yes?” she whispers somewhat breathlessly.

“I _do_ need you,” he says softly, reaching for her hand. “I always need you. Not just for this, though this is lovely, I need you for-”

“Sex?” she asks and promptly blushes and looks down at their joined hands.

He's stunned for a moment, but recovers quickly, murmuring, “Yes, I do, but that's not what I was going to say. I need you for _everything_ , Ruth, including removing shards of glass from my foot when I very stupidly step on them, or bringing me a sandwich when I've been so busy that I've forgotten to eat lunch, or making me a cup of tea at the end of a long day to save me from myself and my tendency to reach for the whisky instead.” He sees her smile and watches as she raises her eyes to look at him once more. “I need you to stay sane in this mad world of ours,” he confesses gently. “I need you to lend me your strength when mine runs out, I need you to centre and calm me, and I need you to let me care for you, to give me purpose, to remind me of what I'm fighting for. And of course sex would be nice, and I would love to be allowed to make love to you and give you pleasure, but it's not a deal breaker, Ruth. I won't love you any less or need you any less if I have to wait for that.”

“You... love me?” she asks, her eyes shining with hope.

“Of course I love you, you daft woman,” he sighs in exasperation, though his lips are smiling fondly as he says it. Then slowly he gets up, putting most of his weight on his left foot, the toes of his right foot giving him balance.

“Harry,” she exclaims, stepping in front of him and reaching her hands forwards to steady him, “careful.”

“Hush, it's just a tiny cut, Ruth; I'm not an invalid,” he objects, resting his hands on her hips for a moment before reaching his right palm up to cup her cheek. “I love you, Ruth Evershed,” he whispers and presses his lips against hers softly. “I _love_ you.”

“I love you too,” she smiles, “and I won't make you wait, Harry. Not any more. That's what I came here to tell you tonight. That I can't stop thinking about you... and the way you looked at me earlier this week... in the corridor, at the hotel. And that I... I want you, Harry... in every way that's important, and I'm ready to try to make this work between us, regardless of what others think and say about us... because I think that... I think that you're the one, Harry.”

“Oh Ruth,” he sighs and pulls her against him, kissing her with all the love and passion he feels for her. When he pulls back, he murmurs huskily, “Where have you been all this time, my Ruth? I feel like I've been waiting for you all my life.”

“Biding my time until you'd sown your wild oats and were ready to settle down,” she smiles making him laugh, a warm, rich sound that warms her heart. “I love to hear you laugh,” she confesses.

“And I love to laugh with you,” he murmurs, cupping her face once more and sliding his thumb across her cheek. Then he turns serious and says earnestly, “I give you my word, Ruth Evershed, that I won't do anything stupid to mess this up, but I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” she asks a little apprehensively.

“That you won't keep running away from me when we hit a rough patch,” he replies. “I understand you might need some space at times to process some things on your own before you're ready to talk about them or deal with them together, but I can't be thinking that I'll lose you again every time that happens. I need to know that you won't end it again just like that, without warning and without giving me the benefit of the doubt and talking things through with me, listening to what I have to say.”

“You're right,” she nods. “It wasn't fair, what I did, and I'm sorry... but I don't know if I can control it, Harry. I don't want to make a promise I can't keep... but I _can_ promise you this - that, if I panic and run away again, I won't break up with you first, and the moment I've calmed down, I'll come and talk it through with you and listen to what you have to say... Is that... is that good enough for you?”

“That's good enough for now,” he smiles.

“Good,” she nods, leaning into his embrace and resting her head on his shoulder as his arms wrap around her. She feels so happy and safe in his arms and it makes her smile in delight. “How about a cup of tea?” she asks eventually as she pulls back to look at him.

“I think I need something stronger than tea at this hour, Ruth,” he smiles.

“I thought you liked it when I rescue you from yourself and make you tea when you're feeling like a whisky,” she teases.

“I do indeed, Ruth,” he smiles, “but tonight I feel like celebrating and tea is hardly an appropriate beverage for that.”

“Very well,” she agrees. “I'll just finish cleaning up while you get yourself settled with a drink.” She steps back and frowns at him as she realises that he needs something to lean on to walk. “Have you any crutches or a walking stick?”

“I might have a walking stick,” he nods. “Dad used to have one and I'm sure it's somewhere about. Perhaps in the cupboard under the stairs?”

“I'll have a look,” she nods and picks up the basin of cold water, carrying it out of the kitchen. He smiles as he watches her and then turns towards the counter, putting the bits and pieces from the first aid kit back in their box while he waits for her to return, marvelling how his life can change for the better in an instant, just like that.

“Umbrella,” she says triumphantly, brandishing his black, steel-capped umbrella as she steps into the kitchen before moving closer and offering it out to him.

“Good thinking,” he smiles as he takes it from her. “Thanks.”

She nods and turns to pick up the first aid kit, carrying it over to the chair and climbing up to put it back in its place, but as she leans down to grab hold of the back of the chair and the counter and lower one foot to the floor again, she feels his strong hands grab hold of her waist to steady her. She squeals in surprise and hears him chuckle softly as he murmurs, “Steady, Ruth. It's only me. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She gets down then and turns to face him, her heart still beating wildly. “What were you trying to do then? Feel me up?!”

He looks shocked for a moment and then exclaims, “No! I was just-”

“Pity,” she interrupts with a smile and watches as his face registers surprise again followed by intense desire. The Havensworth look, she thinks as her stomach does a little flip and the smile fades from her lips. 'Don't panic,' she tells herself, 'You want this.'

He watches her intently as the emotions play across her face, wondering what the best course of action is now. He knows what he wants to do; it's what he's wanted to do for years now, but he's not sure how she'll react and he's scared she'll run from him again. But then he remembers her promise and decides that, at this point, it's worth the risk. Even if she runs from him tonight, she'll be back tomorrow to talk this through, so slipping his hands down to her hips and tightening his grip on her slightly, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss against her lips. And as his lips caress hers tenderly, she finds the courage she's been seeking to let go. This is Harry and she trusts him, she wants him, and she loves him. So with a sigh of pleasure she abandons herself to him and leans in, parting her lips and letting herself get lost in the passion of their kiss, and when they finally come up for air, she hears herself murmur in a voice dripping with lust that she barely recognises as her own, “Forget the whisky, Harry, and take me to bed. I want you now and I can't wait any more.”

His heart soars at her words and his groin catches fire, liquid desire pumping through his bloodstream, but his mind has to make certain she means it first. “Are you sure?” he hears himself ask in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Oh yes. I've never been more sure of anything in my life,” she smiles, cupping his face in her hands as she pulls back to look at him and lovingly traces his features with her gaze. “Can you think of a better way to celebrate?”

“No,” he admits, “no, I can't.” Then he smiles, a rare grin of pure joy, and steps away from her, reaching for his umbrella that's resting against the counter and grabbing hold of her right hand with his left before turning towards the kitchen door. “Shall we?” he asks.

“I thought you'd never ask,” she smiles.

 

 

 

 


End file.
